Dialectics
by Ayezur
Summary: In which pasts are remembered, secrets are revealed, and everything generally goes to hell. Death doesn't fix anything, it just changes the scenery. Continuation of The Man Who Sold The World. Movieverse, BeejLyds, M for zomgSEX. Complete.
1. Chapter One

**Disclaimer: Betelgeuse and Lydia and the rest belong to people who are not me. "I Don't Even Know Myself" belongs to The Who. Various uses of symbolism and mythology belong to their respective cultures, mostly Greek in this case, and heraldry belongs to the Middle Ages. Ish.**

**A/N: I'm sticking to strictly movieverse canon here, largely because it means I can make up my own rules Which means no mirrorstalking, and no puns, and gratuitously... creative... use of mythology. I would also like to deliver belated cookies to Kades, sometimes called randomvacancy, who hits me around the head with a gravedigger's shovel when I get Beej wrong and puts up with my kvetching. She is hostile to all life forms, but appreciates good food; send her offerings.**

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_  
Dialectics: In classical philosophy, an exchange of propositions (theses) and counter-propositions (antitheses) resulting in a synthesis of the opposing assertions, or at least a qualitative transformation in the direction of the dialogue._

The sun was bright and warm on her face, too much so. She opened her eyes and saw the word cast into a sharp relief, flooded with light, every color standing vibrant and alone, with every detail sharp and clear as winter air.

The field was greener than green, so green it broke with reality and became more the _idea_ of green; the ideal green field from which all green fields spring. Stalks laden with white blossoms thrust out of the sea of wavering green, clustered together or standing alone and sometimes shot through with similar plants of a brilliant yellow. One was bent over her, tickling her face. She was lying down. She didn't want to get up. It was comfortable here.

"We made this, you know."

That wasn't her voice.

"Oh, Osiris and his lot will go on for centuries about how they made the psychic _space_, how their belief brought all this into being. But we decorated the building, as it were. We dreamed of something other than simple immorality, and they were dark dreams at first. They softened with time, as all things do, but they were needed, _are_ needed; if you don't fear death just a little, you never manage to live your life."

A woman's voice made rough by coffee and tobacco, the harsh edges softened by some peculiar quality of the glimmering air. It felt like the new softness after a storm here, the moment when the day breaks and the dew lies gentle on the world. Clouds formed and reformed over her head at unreal speeds, somehow never interrupting the light. She sat up; the woman who had been speaking was sitting next to her, smoking. She was dressed in a grey suit, yellowing pearls around her slit neck with dried blood still clinging to some of them. The woman took a long drag on her cigarette.

"Of course, you can go too far one way and end up afraid to leave your room, withering away like that poor child – Emily, that was her name. I hear that now you lot have decided that it wasn't all that tragic, since she valued her friends. Shows what you know; those that love deepest run farthest from the world. Remember that, child."

She blinked in the bright light and spoke through a mouth full of thick honey sweetness.

"Are you Juno?"

"Who did you think I was?" the woman snapped, stubbing out her cigarette in the ground. "Mortals. So few of you ever… if you're not running so far from life for fear of death you never get anything done and end up here, you're so lost in your own lives you never think to wonder and end up here anywhere! Don't get me started on suicides, either; I have entirely too much office help these days. And then there are the angry ones, the lost souls…"

Juno watched the distant horizon for a moment, as if remembering. Then she shook her head. "Nevermind that. Listen, child, I'm doing what I can, but the bargain isn't fulfilled and I do have other duties."

"What do you mean?" Nothing made sense now, but that was all right. It was so peaceful here…

"Damn it, pay attention! Remember this: I'm _Juno_. It isn't just a name, it's a job description, and _you made a deal_. He might not act as though he remembers or cares, and might even mean it, but the universe hasn't forgotten and he won't lose a second time. You've got to make your choice and make it soon, or it'll be made for you."

"I still don't understand."

"_Him_, child! The one who can't leave enough damn well alone! Can't even remember why he's doing it at this point. Won't. Doesn't want to bear the hurt and move on. Damn fool."

Her shout was no louder than normal, really quieter than most because of her broken throat but it still shook the field; from nowhere, butterflies enveloped the scene. Juno disappeared behind the swarming veil of color and erratic dancing while a humming grew louder and louder and then the world was drowning in slow-moving amber sweetness – and it wasn't a hum, it was a buzz, and there was a great surge of yellow and black darting through, clouding her sight as the bees formed a face before her, a woman's face, laughing…

Lydia stuck a hand out from under her covers and groped at the alarm, fumbling for the off switch and finally just knocking the whole thing on the floor. She groaned and flung back the covers before she could think better of it, staring at her ceiling and trying to hold onto the shreds of her dream. Butterflies and bees, and fields of asphodel… well, she had a good excuse for having death on the brain.

It had been over a year and a half now since Betelgeuse had wormed his way back into her life and she hadn't exactly intended things to end up as they had. It wasn't that she resented it; somehow he'd ended up just always being there. And she hadn't thought that would be the case when he gave her permission to call her. She'd thought she would end up having to seek him out, and rarely, but there were few days when she didn't come home from school and find him lounging in miniature on her desk. He'd grin up at her – "How about those B-words, babes?" – and she'd been wary of letting him loose at first, but months had passed and he'd never done anything harmful.

She swung her legs over the side of bed and stood up, fumbling for her stereo remote and finally managed to turn the thing on, eyes still bleary and swollen with sleep.

_There's nothing in the way I walk that could tell you where I'm going  
There's nothing in the words I speak that could betray anything I'm knowing  
Don't think about the way I dress  
You can't fit me a labeled shelf  
Don't pretend that you know me, 'cause I don't even know myself_

The shower spray was hot and soothing; she could just hear her music over the stuttering hiss of the ancient plumbing system. Adam was always going on about fixing it, but nothing had happened so far. It wasn't even as if the basement was outside the house. She couldn't shake the idea that it was a Guy Thing – that admitting they needed professional help would somehow detract from one's masculinity. Her father had the same problem, however subliminated it was under his constant nervous paranoia. He'd stubbornly refused to see a psychiatrist, insisting that all he needed was a little time away from it all. And Betelgeuse… oy. He was worse than all of them put together. You'd think the world was ending the way he'd carry on whenever something didn't go according to plan. It wasn't that he got angry; she'd never seen him truly _angry_ that she could remember, but he'd grow increasingly agitated as everything turned up dead ends and their choices narrowed down to actually asking for help instead of trying to work it out alone getting themselves more muddled.

Her tendency to end up in a gigglefit as he grew more and more frustrated probably didn't help.

It was odd, she couldn't help thinking as she stepped out and wrapped a towel around herself, but she never felt herself to be in any danger with him. Not since that first Halloween, when Ammit had frightened her into fainting and he'd…

She touched her fingers to her forehead, lightly. He'd never explained why he'd done it, and she'd never asked. Something told her the answer would break the fragile détente between them; there was a kind of unspoken agreement to not ask personal questions beyond "How was your day?" He'd show up and whisk her off someplace in the afterlife or the real world, show her things she'd never dreamed of seeing (and admittedly frightened her on occasion; like when they'd gone to the Notre Dame cathedral in Paris, standing on the walkway between the belltowers and he'd suddenly grabbed her hand and jumped over the side, taking her along with him. She'd screamed then, in the moment of freefall before he caught her and held her with preternatural strength, dangling from a gargoyle and grinning wickedly). He'd never asked anything in return, either; she assumed he must be getting something out of it, because it wasn't in his nature to do otherwise. Sometimes she thought she could almost grasp the shape of it, sense it in the back of her mind like she'd sensed the meanings of the Handbook (she'd never explained to Barbara and Adam that she didn't understand the words anymore than they did; she just got the sense of it, and knew it was right. She didn't think they would understand) but then she would forget, or it would slip away, or she'd get distracted…

_Don't listen to the words I say  
Weighing up as if I'm enlightened  
Don't shiver as you pass me by_  
'_Cause mister, I'm the one who's frightened_

Now, staring at her muzzy reflection in the fogged mirror, unfocused and half in her dream, she thought she could feel it fluttering around the edges of her mind; something in possessive hand that always ended up on her waist, the insistence on standing near her, how she always seemed to end up close to him… careful compliments that never went over the line but seemed to brush up to the very edge of it, things she'd put down to his basic nature; he was the kind of person who lived dancing on an avalanche, pushing and pushing until the cards collapsed….

_Don't pretend that you know me, 'cause I don't even know myself_

I don't mind if you try, once in a while  
And I don't mind if I cry, once in a while  
The doors aren't shut as tight as it might seem  
I'm just trying to fight my way out of this dream…

"Lydia! Lydia, dear, you're going to be late!"

…and it was gone. She shrugged into her bathrobe, wrapping the towel around her head, and stuck her head out of the bathroom.

"I'm coming, Delia! Just lemme get dressed!"

* * *

He eyed his ancient foe warily, knowing that this would be the decisive battle. It was a war that had raged for many years, to the point where he couldn't remember why he was still fighting it except for the general principle of the thing. His foe was wily and clever; claims had been made that the opposition was willing to talk peace, but he remained suspicious.

You just couldn't _trust_ showers. They were sneaky things, always spraying water on you when you least expected it. Some would argue that was the point of showers, but Betelgeuse was quite sure they were working for the enemy. He didn't _like_ showers; he came from a time when a good stink was something you cultivated and treasured to keep the flux away. He could never quite shake the idea that more than one bath a year was pushing it, but a couple decades ago one of his intermittent lovers (this was before everything went to hell) had put her foot down and had the shower installed, and insisted he use it.

'Course, she had managed to come up with a pretty good incentive… she'd had some real _skill_ with a loofah. He couldn't remember her name, or what had happened to her; probably they'd just wandered apart, like all the dead did eventually.

It bothered him, obscurely, that he couldn't remember her name.

Anyway. Shower. He had to take one; Lyds was graduating today and he was going to take her out for a night on the town, and it wasn't like he made a _habit_ of it or anything, just that this was a special occasion. Like her eighteenth birthday and their one-year anniversary had been. He wasn't whipped, dammit! It was all part of the Plan – she had to trust him, after all.

Betelgeuse shuddered and stepped into the shower, gingerly fiddling with the knobs and cringing as the cold spray washed over him. Even the damn water was cold here; what use did the dead have for heat? None, obviously, they couldn't feel it, but it would be nice.

Grumbling, he reached for the cheap yellow soap that as far as he knew was the same soap he'd brought when the shower was first installed – still barely touched – and raised it to his face, examining it. He'd made it a point of pride not to use soap. Sure, he'd get in the shower and stand under the water for a while and that was all well and good, but he drew the line at soap. But… Lyds was graduating…

He swallowed hard and before he had time to think about it, lathered up and starting running his fingers through his hair, copying what he dimly remembered as being the procedure for… well, you know. Hair. Soap and water. Alright – _washing_.

Years of grease and loose hairs worked their way out of his tangled mane and crowded on the shower floor, swirling with the rising water as the drain clogged from the sheer amount of _filth_ being rinsed out. A couple of bugs happened to come out with the rest of it; an unexpected bright spot in the whole trial. Tasty ones, too. He applied soap to skin grimly as he chewed, watching with a certain amount of horror as the dirt of centuries dissolved and joined the swirling mess that was now spilling onto the floor of the tiny bathroom. It was like witnessing the untimely death of an old friend.

Finally he couldn't stand it anymore and stepped out, zapping the drain unclogged as he went. There were no mirrors in the afterlife, so he had no way to judge the job he'd done. But going by the mess on the bathroom floor, it'd been a good one.

Because he was still himself despite it all, he shook himself off like a wet dog before donning his signature suit and going out to make some arrangements.

* * *

"Parents, teachers, friends, the graduating class: We are here today with one purpose in mind: to recognize the graduation of those deserving seniors. What does it mean to graduate? To me, it is not just the completion of twelve years of schooling. It is the setting of a foundation firm enough for us to build the rest of our lives, our learning, and our future. And we, through the fine efforts of our dedicated teachers…"

Lydia leaned back in her chair and tuned out the speech, focusing her eyes on the green treetops against blue sky rustling lightly behind the makeshift stage; it was traditional for each class to plant a tree in the school grove, tend to it, watch it grow… she found her class tree, the slender and branchless trunk straining towards the sky, a bushy crown of leaves casting shadows that brushed against the edges of the junior and sophomore trees, and the scrawny little freshman sapling, looking lost and alone amidst the older trees already reaching for the sun. The graduation ceremonies were always held outdoors, with the exception of that freak snowstorm in 1882.

Up on the stage, the valedictorian (what was her name, Amy? Melissa? Claire? She wasn't part of Lydia's small circle, that was for sure) had gone on long enough that the headmistress started clapping at the first available break. The valedictorian humphed and flounced her way offstage as the headmistress commandeered the mike.

"Thank you, Samantha, for that _inspiring_ speech. Now, I'd just like to say that I've been honored, absolutely _honored_ to have a part in the education of these _exceptional_ young ladies. However, there comes a _time_, as you all well know, when every bird must leave the nest and fly free into the _glorious_ sky! So, without further ado, I _proudly_ present…"

Lydia tuned out again, waiting for her name to be called. Speeches, speeches everywhere and nothing useful said.

"Gabrielle Adams."

It was all going to be over soon, anyway; she'd been accepted to NYU and they'd been given their diplomas before the ceremony, in their last homeroom.

"Clarissa Barclay."

This was all a formality, anyway.

"Katherine Carmichael."

Well, no, more than that. Ceremony and ritual, a way of marking the passage of time. Like the brooch Delia had given her with no little embarrassment when she started menstruating. She'd taken it, unsure, cramps still stinging (the painkillers hadn't set in yet), bloated and confused and not liking this new sensation at _all…_

"Jennifer Colburn."

"Well, you're a woman now," Delia had said, and she'd nodded and walked away. A few days later, for one reason or another, they'd fought and Delia had shouted that she was just a child, how could she know? And Lydia had been tempted to scream back that she was a _woman_ now, thank you, and choked on it because woman was too round and potent a word for what she was; the skinny little girl hiding under layers of black and lace. _We grow into the world with the pain of second birthing_, she had written later, a single line on a blank white diary page. Later that day, she had quietly put away Captain Pillow, the bear who had sat on her bed for all twelve years of her childhood, placing him up on a high shelf. Her father had come in to say goodnight and seen him there, and though he hadn't said a word she knew he knew, and she felt the gulf between them her mother's death had caused widen imperceptibly.

After that day, he'd begun knocking on her door before coming in.

"Lydia Deetz."

She had an idea that the thin avenue between the chairs should widen in her perception, somehow, that the short walk should take longer; that time should slow while she took that second-to-last step into the wide world.

It didn't, however. In the time it took her to have that thought she'd walked to the stage; by the time she processed it, she was walking across, sweltering in the rough gown pulled over her jeans and shirt and pulled at anxiously by Barbara just before she left the house, and they'd handed her the sheet of blank paper – ritually tied in a ribbon of heraldic sanguine (slow to battle but ever-victorious) – and she was shaking hands with the faulty, stumbling over her hem as she stepped down and joining her milling classmates on the other side.

It was really terribly anti-climatic, she thought as she threw her hat in the air.


	2. Chapter Two

**A/N: Eeeet's aliiiiiiiive!  
Some of you may ask, concerning the location described herein, "Why?" To which I say, "Because."  
Tehbeejz0rs has hazel eyes. I actually paused the movie and zoomed in to determine this; I hear tell that they're green in the cartoon on the odd occassion that the irises are visible, but in the movie they're hazel. Green-hazel as opposed to brown-hazel, but hazel. Given the whole "black eyesocket" dealie, we probably would have _really_ noticed if they were. It's not that I am against the green eyes thing, but I am a stickler for accuracy in the oddest places. Also, mudfighting is good for the skin, healthy exercise, and relieves stress. Try mudfighting today!**

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Native moments – when you come upon me – ah, you are here now,  
Give me now libidinous joys only,  
Give me the drench of my passions, give me life coarse and rank,  
To-day I go consort with Nature's darlings, to-night too,  
I am for those who believe in loose delights, I share the midnight   
orgies of young men,  
I dance with the dancers and drink with the drinkers,  
The echoes ring with our indecent calls, I pick out some low person  
for my dearest friend,  
He shall be lawless, rude, illiterate, he shall be one condemn'd by  
others for deeds done,  
I will play a part no longer, why should I exile myself from my companions?  
O you shunn'd persons, I at least do not shun you,  
I come forthwith in your midst, I will be your poet,  
I will be more to you than to any of the rest.

- "Native Moments," Walt Whitman

The house was silent; a deep silence that settled over her and pushed her into a gentle lethargy, curled through skin and muscle to rest gently in her bones. She felt herself steeped in it, lying back on her bed with her diploma dangling half off the edge of her desk and the silent play of shadows dancing on the far wall. It was late. She should be asleep, but he hadn't come yet, and he had _promised_. Which was ridiculous – he wasn't the kind who kept promises – but he had, and he'd never broken his word before. Not to her. Not ever, really; he'd freed Adam and Barbara, after all.

He wasn't going to come. It was much too late. She'd known from the beginning that he was untrustworthy, undependable, as reliable as a house built on quicksand, however you wanted to say it…

Just five more minutes, and she'd go to sleep.

Okay, ten.

Fifteen. But no more than that.

…it would take her at least twenty to finish the chapter she was on.

_He could feel that old electric feeling, the one you got deep inside when you stood right there in front of a banker who was carefully examining an example of your very best work and then the man would smile and say, "Very good, Mr. Assumed Name, I will have my clerk bring up the money right away." It was the thrill not of the chase but of standing still, of remaining so calm, composed, and genuine that, for just long enough, you could fool the world and spin it on your finger. There were the moments he lived for, when he was really alive, and his thoughts flowed like quicksilver, and the very air sparkled. Later, that feeling would present its bill. But for now, he flew._

…he wasn't going to come. She put aside the book with a sigh and stood to change from the dress she'd carefully selected (all the time telling herself that she wasn't, he had nothing to do with it, she just liked looking nice, okay?) from her nightgown when the temperature around her dropped, a sudden and sharp decline. Lydia shuddered and snatched her blanket as the cold spot drifted from her and centered around her mirror; she could tell because it frosted over and a sloppy scrawl materialized.

_Say my name._

"Goddammit, Beej, what happened to rapping on the walls, or throwing books?"

_Babes, we don't have time. Say my name._ The last was underlined several times, the lines turning and melding into each other in their urgency.

"All _right_, christ. Betelgeuse, Betelgeuse, Betelgeuse."

With a pop and a slight increase in pressure from displaced air he was standing in front of her, dressed in his usual suit and wearing an air of distraction like a worn coat.

"Yer ready? Great. C'mon."

He held out his hand to her and she took it as they had done a hundred times before; he drew her close, though not so close as to lend any added weight to that voice in the back of her mind that kept insisting there was more to it then just a strange kind of almost-friendship both would deny the existence of. She couldn't fathom him tonight, though; there was a tense wariness to him she'd never seen before, something that made the taste of iron rise in the back of her throat.

"Beej, what's going on?"

"You'll see. Hafta get this just right…"

His hand on her waist tightened and brought her almost imperceptibly closer as he shut his eyes, concentrating; she clenched her hand (lying idly on his shoulder; they always stood as though about to begin a dance when he needed to take them somewhere) in his shirt, worried now. There was a crackling potential in the air, some kind of lightning charge that made her skin prickle and shudder.

"Beej – "

And that was when whatever was building in the air discharged, sending them spinning into the outer dark.

* * *

"Babes? Lyds? C'mon, doll, wake up. You die on me and I'm fucked for the next three _centuries_."

It was cold, and wet, and she was tired, and something was _talking_ and would not _shut up_.

"Nyarhgo'way."

"Babes! Stay with me, sweetheart."

And now it was _touching_ her. Hands only marginally warmer than whatever the hell she was lying in were patting her cheek lightly and she swatted at them.

"Go'_way_."

Then she was lifted out of the cold, her head throbbing like a old sore and supported by a hand that twined almost tenderly through her hair and was, she thought dimly, much more gentle than it should be…

Memory crept in and she opened her eyes, squinting against the headache. It was raining; at least, she could see it raining. None of it was hitting her face. And it was cold. There was someone bent over her, holding her up. That would explain why the rain wasn't falling on her… she could feel the droplets patter on her skirt – it was just her upper body that was shielded.

"Beej?"

"Lydia."

There was relief there, and an edge of fear so thin she almost didn't catch it. Maybe she hadn't.

"What happened?"

"'M sorry," he muttered. "Thought I had it figured. Didn't know that would happen."

She had to smile at that because of the way the apology came out squeezed and short, forced out from some deeply repressed depth of his gleefully disingenuous soul.

"Didn't know what would happen?"

"Timeshock. Doesn't affect us, 'a course, just mortals."

"…time… shock?" Water was soaking through the fabric of her dress; something slimy was smeared across her ankles. She didn't really want to move, though, largely because it felt as if her head might explode if she did, but on some level – some small part whispering to the silence of her deeper mind – she liked where she was. He was worried for her, for all his bluster. It was evidence of her power over him.

But he was helping her to her feet and she had to stand, because she would never admit that she wanted to stay held close to him. She'd given him power over her once before and look where that ended up; the one lesson he'd taught her she had learned very well. Play your cards close and never volunteer information.

"Take a look, Lyds." There was his hand, creeping around her waist with a kind of casual stealth. She blinked and rubbed at her eyes, shoving back sodden strands of hair. They had a grainy feel, and when she looked at her hand mud was smeared across it.

"You fell," he muttered. "Didn't realize it'd knocked ya out at first."

He didn't tell her how his insides had lurched as she crumpled to the muddy ground, paler than she had any right to be, or how he'd dropped to his knees and cradled her and not realized he had done so until she was pressed warm against him, or how deeply he'd felt it when he realized she was still breathing and he'd gotten her to open her eyes – something between irritation at his own worry and defiant relief that she was safe.

He hadn't even taken the time to look around.

He took a look, then, and frowned at what he saw. There weren't as many stones as there should be. They were in the wrong place, too.

…actually, they didn't even look that much like stones.

…oh, _shit_.

"Where are we?"

Betelgeuse closed his eyes and ran a hand over his face.

"Salisbury Plains. England."

"…Stonehenge?"

"…got the time wrong…" he muttered.

"I didn't hear you."

"I got the time wrong, alright?" he snapped, walking away from her. "I meant ta bring us four thousand years back, when there was stone, before the Romans trashed the place. I missed."

"By how much?"

"…'bout eight hundred years?"

Lydia couldn't help it; she giggled, pressing her hands to her mouth to smother the sound. It wasn't particularly nice of her, given that he'd gone through some effort – time travel, of all things – but he was so _funny_ when he was frustrated.

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up," he snarled, disgruntled. "Let's see you do better."

He stalked off, fuming and glaring at the wooden structures standing there smugly in the light rain. Just goddamn once it would be nice if things went the way he planned!

"I'm sorry," she said from behind him. "I shouldn't have laughed. I appreciate the thought, really."

He kicked at a wooden pole idly, hands shoved in his pockets. "Not your fault, babes."

Silence fell between them like a thick blanket, broken only by the gentle pattern of rain. She was tired, and her head hurt; the dress was sodden and weighing her down, pressing on her shoulders and pulling her toward the wet earth. He turned around abruptly and leaned against the pole he had kicked earlier, studying her.

She looked a wreck; hair straggling from her upsweep, half undone by the shock of the transition and the rain. What little makeup she wore was smeared and fading, and the her dress was on its way to ruin.

…this wasn't what he'd intended. He'd had the night all picked out – a gorgeous night, clear sky, full moon, stars scattered like diamonds. Perfect weather, the gleam of moonlight on the stones, a romantic dinner… he could have made his move, and her none the wiser for it. Except when he'd been in transit there had come a strange buzzing laugh like a swarm of bees, and then he'd somehow lost his grip on the fragile silver line through time and space…

Better not to tell her that they could have ended up in the Mesozoic for all the control he'd had.

She sighed and sat down, skirts rustling. "Well, we're here."

"Don't sit down, Lyds, you'll ruin your dress," he said absently, examining his nails for a lack of anything better do to.

"Like it even matters at this point?" she snapped, giving him a once-over. "You're perfectly fine. Of course." She didn't even bother to hide her irritation. He smirked, old habits rushing in to fill the unnaturally quiet void.

"Not my fault you can't stay… on your feet, babe." _Off your back_, he'd wanted to say, and then something had stopped him. Dammit. That kept happening when she was around.

Still, it had the desired effect; she almost growled at him and turned away, crossing her arms. A few moments later, she looked back.

"See something you like?" he asked, smirk firmly in place and pointedly not looking at her.

Which was when the mudball hit him square in the face. He spluttered; she laughed and stuck out her tongue. "There. Now we're even."

"…oh _no_, Lyds, don't start somethin' ya ain't going to _finish_…" A gesture from him, and a vast quantity of mud rose up from the ground nearby. Her eyes went wide and she scrambled backwards, trying to get to her feet as he paced forward, grinning wickedly.

"No magic! _No magic – !_" her voice trailed into a shriek as he released the mud from his spell as it was over her, showering her in it. She stood shocked for a moment, dripping mud and soaking wet, eyes wide – and then she tackled him. He went down hard, thudding against the soft ground, and she took the extra time to smear some of it in his hair before sitting back – a really quite pleasant weight, though he tried not to think too hard about it because she would notice if he did – and regarding him with crossed arms.

"You are _such_ an asshole, Beej."

He quirked an eyebrow and flipped them over, pinning her with his greater weight and serenely dribbling a handful of mud across her face. She put up her hands to shield herself, laughing, and he returned her earlier favor by smearing the rest in her hair (and if he took a little extra time, if it could almost be called an excuse for a caress, she would never know). His other arm was bracing him against the ground at her side, forearm resting in the dirt; they were close, very close, and she was terribly warm against him, almost burning, and beautiful even under all the mud (or maybe because of it; laughing and unrestrained, joyous as he'd only seen her once or twice before).

"Beej?"

He realized he had been staring at her, resting his face in his free hand with his elbow propped in the dirt; for once he managed to do something involving her without thinking and kissed her.

She stiffened as soon as he did and the same irritating impulse that kept him in check around her told him to stop, she didn't want him to, but faced with the overpowering _warmth_ of her it was easy to ignore the voice, and keep going, sliding one hand down to grasp her waist and letting the other support his weight and tangle in her hair… she tasted of strawberry lip gloss and the sharp acid tang of the mud they'd been throwing around.

He wanted access and bit gently at her lower lip, demanding to be let in; the soft tug made her open her mouth in shock and he took advantage, pressing deeper, seeking the roaring heat at the heart of her, aware in some dim corner of his mind that her hands had come up to rest on him, one on his shoulder and the other on his waist as if they were dancing and that she was relaxing into him, offering herself now and he took everything she would give, everything he could hold without thought for his ego or his pride, never ashamed, breaking the kiss to let her breathe and finding himself whispering her name against her lips, eyes fixed on hers…

Then she turned away and her hands – the small things that had burned like brands against his dead skin – came up to push at him; confused and still dazed by what had passed between them (and somewhere in the depths remembering lifetimes ago, and another small, dark woman in his arms), he let her get up.

"Take me home, please."

"…Lydia?"

He looked ridiculously vulnerable for what he was, looking up at her with eyes glazed, suit ruffled and covered in mud, saying her name in a way that quite unfairly made her go weak at the knees.

"Take me home. _Please_." She could hear the desperation in her voice now.

"I… alright. Alright. I'll take ya home." He stood, taking her by the hand and she flushed. They had to be close for the transit, he had explained early on; it was easier to keep hold of her that way. That didn't stop her from holding herself as stiffly as she had months ago, when it had all been so new…

Darkness swirled around them and she blacked out, coming into consciousness standing in her bedroom with her head resting against his shoulder and his arms wrapped around her. She pushed away quickly, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror and raising a hand to her mouth – an archaic gesture picked up from a hundred old movies watched late at night when she couldn't sleep and the world plucked angrily at her nerves. She looked like a wild thing: smeared with mud, hair flying, skin flushed, eyes dilated and mouth swollen. He stood behind her, hazel eyes – normally more green than not – dark and frightening in a way that was entirely new to her.

"Babe."

Babe. Not Lydia. She could count on one hand the times he'd called her by her full name instead of Lyds or some macho nickname. On her eighteenth birthday he had used it when they parted, saying it like a caress and she had thought it odd and then went on her way – she had been so _stupid!_

"What?" She turned away from the reflection in the mirror, unwilling to look at him.

"What happened back there…"

"Nothing. Nothing happened. It was late, that's all, and the timeshock – "

"Wasn't timeshock."

"It can't happen again. It – it can't! My parents, and the Maitlands, and you're _dead_ for god's sake – "

"And we had a deal," he said, unnaturally quietly and with something almost gentle in his voice.

Icy shock broke over her. It hadn't been mentioned since that first Halloween so long ago; she had forgotten…

"I can't. I _can't_." She felt like a broken record, or a heroine in some cheap melodrama, head spinning and unable to think of a single good reason _why_ except that she _couldn't_, it was too much to ask. He put his hand on her shoulder and she flinched, drawing away, hearing a sigh come from him dry and soft as dust in a mausoleum.

"And I can't force you. I mean, I _could_, but – 's complicated."

"You didn't have a problem before," she said sharply, turning to face him. He looked…sheepish?

"That was different. Things change. People. You know."

"No, I _don't_ know."

"Lyds…" he sighed again, running a hand through his hair and succeeding only in smearing the mud around even more. "Aw, t'hell with it."

Before she could react, he jerked her towards him and kissed her again, fiercely; the first one for all his insistence had been soft, exploring, and this one seared through her flesh and bone leaving her dizzy and gasping in its wake.

"You think I woulda wanted to do _that_ five years ago?" he said quietly, resting his forehead against hers. They were pressed so closely together she could feel every part of his body, could feel…

She blushed furiously. Oh.

"It changes things. An' it's not just – you know. Wouldn't have taken this long if it was."

And then he was kissing her again, gentle and demanding and she clutched his shirt, arms squashed in the space between them but she didn't care, couldn't care…

Which was when the door opened and the Maitlands came in, since it was well past noon (hey, time travel is an inexact science) and Lydia hadn't come downstairs. Barbara gasped; Adam stared, and the guilty parties broke apart.

"Betelgeuse, Betelgeuse, _Betelgeuse!_" Barbara shrieked.

"Oh, sh – "


	3. Chapter Three

**A/N: FOR I AM BECOME DEATH, SHATTERER OF - ooo, look, something shiny. Anyway. Showering with your clothes on is also fun and recommended by the management, and I have first-class tickets in the _special_ handbasket. If you think this chapter is bringing the weird (which you may very well), I suggest you bail now, because the crack just keeps on comin'.**

* * *

"I can't believe you – "

" – very disappointed – "

"Betrayed our trust – "

She stood in a maelstrom of words, eyes focused on some point beyond the faces and anger; she hadn't had time to change so mud and rainwater dripped little puddles on Delia's carpet. Like the night two years before, she thought dimly, remembering an almost-hot bowl of white grains sliding, falling, scattering on the carpet, grease and oil crushed in under booted feet and slippers…

"After all we've been through – "

" – that pervert – "

"Thought we raised you better – "

Her head was pounding; there was a roaring in her ears of her own blood screaming and she wanted to sit down. She'd locked her knees to stand firm against the tirades and found that if she contemplated unlocking them she lost all strength. It had been too sudden. One moment she was arcing into him almost but not quite against her will (and becoming more her will with every passing second, every movement of his lips against her cold and burning as ice…) and the next he was gone, she was missing the weight of him and dragged downstairs to stand bedraggled in the foursquare rage…

"Lydia, honey, whatever he's told you – "

" – liar – "

" – lied to us – "

" – how could you – "

They needed to stop, right now, before the strands of frustration in her mind stretched and snapped and she said things she knew she could never take back. It was so eerily similar to five years ago in texture that she could laugh; a whirlwind of activity centered around her but never on her, life spinning from under her control…

And she did laugh, then, at the arrogance of the thought. Well, not laugh as such; more chuckle for a moment, collapsing inward with a strange smile, because nothing had ever been under her control. Things had happened – her mother's death, her father's retreat, Delia, the move, the Maitlands – and she had been consulted in a cursory fashion, there had perhaps been some illusion of choice and control but ultimately she was swept up in the plans of the headstrong adults around her. She had a sudden vivid understanding of herself: watching the world through quiet dark eyes and never resisting the tidal pull of the personalities around her because she had learned early on that it was no use. She had raged and fought against her mother's death and still the rotting black fingers had leeched her from the world, stolen the ground from under her until there was nothing but the long shrill scream of the machines and the doctors rushing, jostling, pushing her out of the room _I'm sorry, there was nothing we could do…_

_Nothing we could do…_

_Nothing…_

She turned and began to walk away. The voices died in shock and she managed to get partway up the stairs before a shrill voice rang out (and it didn't really matter which one).

"Lydia Deetz, _what_ do you think you're doing?"

"Going to take a shower."

"We're not finished here, Lydia." She turned.

"I don't care." There was such freedom in finally saying it, she said it again. "I don't care. You can't make me," and she couldn't keep a note of petulance from her voice. "I'm tired. I've just been over a thousand years in the past and back again, kissed by a poltergeist who tried to force me to marry him five years ago, and yelled at for – " she found the ironic-retro Felix the Cat clock and added in her head " – ten minutes by my legal parents and two ghosts who fancy themselves surrogates."

She saw the hurt gaping between them and her and kept her voice even, because she _was_ tired. It was all well and good to be their dark queer bird with a heart of gold, a sweet dream while it lasted but she'd always known exactly who she was under the piles of lace and the shy smiles and overdone mascara. "I'm tired and filthy and I want a shower. And I'm not going to stop seeing him just to make you feel better. No – " she raised her hand as Barbara made to speak. "This _is_ about you. I don't have a problem with him; he's made up for what he tried to do to me."

She felt, then, what she thought she was supposed to at the graduation ceremony; the slowing of time as the passage in front of her narrowed and stretched into infinity, blood rushing warm as the light of burning bridges. Delia caught her gaze and she saw something new in her stepmother's eyes… no, not new, old as the first mother watching as her daughter walked away, but something she understood now.

"I'm really not a child anymore," Lydia said quietly, and walked up the stairs. Behind her, Adam put a hand on Barbara's shoulder; the ghost in the flowering housedress looked shellshocked, while her husband watched gravely.

* * *

It was easier to just wear her dress in the shower than bother with trying to get it off in a way that wouldn't leave mud smeared on the white tile, so she made the water as hot as she could stand and stepped in, turning her face upwards to the spray and closing her eyes. The plumbing whined and rattled as steam rose in the bathroom; her mind went blessedly blank and if she had been a different person, she would have cried. Her dress was soaked through in an instant, the cold, slimy feel of the sodden field replaced by warmth; the weight dragged her down and she found herself kneeling on the floor of the tub, hands clasped to keep them from trembling and water pouring over the back of her head to run across her face. Eventually she reached behind her and undid the remains of her upsweep (he liked the upsweep, she remembered dully, she didn't always wear it and when she did he always complimented it, so she'd worn it tonight because tonight was supposed to be special – only it was really last night, wasn't it?), running her hands through her hair and feeling the grainy mud wash away as she tilted her face back up to the almost scalding water.

A through scrubbing later, she hung the now reasonably clean dress over the shower curtain railing to dry and stepped out, wrapping a towel around herself. It didn't really surprise her when she saw the writing on the fogged mirror.

_Is everything all right?_

"No," she said out loud, knowing that he'd be lurking in the room and not particularly caring. "I mean, it'll be okay for now, I think. I don't – I don't know what any of what happened means, exactly, but I'm not going to stop… seeing you…" And why did those words catch in her throat now when they never had before? "They can't really make me, can they?"

Either he chose not to answer or meant suddenly wrapping her in cold to be his answer; her skin pricked and he moved away quickly, more writing appearing on the mirror.

_Say my name?_

"Not yet," she said, and nothing further as she dried herself off. She didn't really have an excuse, except that it was one thing for him to lurk, invisible and insubstantial, and quite another to be physically present in her bathroom. She thought she caught a hint of his withdrawal, but that could have been anything. Either way it didn't seem quite relevant; for all she knew, he'd watched her change a hundred times.

…if he_ had_ watched her change, what else had he seen? Moments when she'd lain alone in the dark of her bedroom, furtive and inexperienced gropings…

Her eyes went wide and she almost dropped the bathrobe she was about to put on. He _wouldn't_. …he totally would.

If he had, she would just have to kill him. Again.

* * *

Barbara was sitting on her bed, waiting for her, when she entered her bedroom. Lydia stopped in the doorway and waited.

"Lydia, honey, I don't think you've thought this through," she said without preamble. "He's a vicious pervert and a criminal. You shouldn't want to have anything to do with him after… you know."

"After I agreed to marry him in return for saving your lives and then you two stopped the deal from going through?" That wasn't the whole truth, Lydia knew, because she hadn't wanted to marry him any more than they had wanted her to, but it was an easy thing to throw in their face. "You know, you never stopped to ask what was going on. Why he'd saved you, if all he wanted was me."

"Lydia, you were _thirteen!_" It seemed that a whiplash of ice-cold coiled between them, sending outraged tendrils towards the ghost on the bed at that statement and its implications.

"And it wasn't going to be that kind of marriage!" she snapped, temper rising. "My god, Barbara, he's a lech, not _sick_. He wants to get out of the afterlife and he has to marry a living woman in order to do that. _Just_ marry. I'm not even sure it's possible to have sex with a ghost! And yes, I was scared, and I didn't want to go through with it, and he should have known I was too young, but he isn't some kind of _monster!_" She was practically shouting now, speaking more harshly than she had for years; this was a day of firsts – first kiss from a ghost, first time yelling at someone who loved her… "Like I said," she said, deflating rapidly at the shock and pain in Barbara's eyes. "It's your problem with him, not mine. Not anymore."

"…Lydia, you can't see him anymore. You must know that." Barbara tilted her head slightly, a look of sickening compassion on her face.

"No, I don't," she said, feeling her stomach lurch. "Why?"

"He's just using you, sweetheart. And once he has what he wants he'll leave you. It's what his kind do."

_His kind_. Cold clenched around her as if in reaction to those words and blood rushed to her head. She felt herself speak as if from far away, inhumanly calm. "Do you think I don't know what he is? I've always known." _Stop talking now, you know he's listening_. "I know he's got some scheme in mind; probably he just wants me to marry him. And maybe I even will. But it's _my choice_, do you understand? _Mine_. Not yours. It's _always_ been my choice, and he's the only person who's ever seen fit to recognize it!"

The words that sounded so proud and strong in her head came out childish and futile under Barbara's pitying look, and she turned away. The cold swirled around her, making her skin constrict and her breath come out as steam.

"He's in here, isn't he?" Barbara said. "He's been listening. Lydia, how can I trust anything you say when he's watching over your shoulder?"

"…go away."

"I just want to help. I know the kind of power he has, and what he must be doing to you."

"_Go. Away._"

"Alright." The ghost-woman left, passing an ephemeral hand over Lydia's shoulder as she went. "You know Adam and I are always here for you."

Lydia was silent and remained so even as she changed, despite knowing he was in the room. She felt utterly numb; somehow she had thought things could just go on as they were forever, seeing him without them ever knowing…

She pulled a shirt over her head and curled up on the unmade bed. A breeze wafted over her face, though she knew all the windows were closed. She sighed.

"Betelgeuse, Betelgeuse, Betelgeuse."

He appeared without fanfare this time, sitting next to her on the bed and cleared his throat as through he was going to say something – an apology, maybe, or more likely a feeble joke, some attempt to lighten the situation – and she sat up, pressing her the tips of her fingers to his mouth.

"Don't," she said, a quiet plea in her voice. He blinked, and there was a softening in the depths of his eyes. With a soft exhale she rested her head on his shoulder (not fighting it when he pulled her closer and rested his cheek on top of her head) and closed her eyes, feeling the tension in her mind – strings of thought pulled tight and deadly – loosening. She would have to face the world, eventually, at some point, though not if she could at all avoid it, and the strings would tighten again because someone would demand that make a choice, and she couldn't choose. Not between him and them. For the moment, however, they were suspended in the trough of the wave, and safe.


	4. Chapter Four

**A/N: "I'm the goddamned Batman, and MY PARENTS ARE DEAD." Yes, this is sooner than expected. Insomnia sometimes works that way. You're all going to hate me after this chapter; just wait until you see what I have in store for the ending.**

* * *

"He's controlling her somehow, Adam. I know it."

Barbara paced across the attic, wringing her hands nervously. Her husband reclined on the couch, flipping through the Handbook for the Recently Deceased.

"I'm sure there's something in here that we can use; that kind of… relationship has to be against the rules."

"Will you stop with that _damn_ handbook?" she snapped, whirling around and glaring at him. "What are you going to do, tell him to stop because it's against the law? As if he'd care."

"No, but if we told Juno…" He knew as soon as he said it that there was no point; her child – and healthy or not, Barbara did see Lydia as being more her daughter than the Deetz's – was in danger.

"She knew what he was up to the first time, she probably knows now," she sniffed. "She just isn't _doing_ anything about it. Probably because Lydia isn't about to reveal the truth about the afterlife."

"Maybe she doesn't know the extent of it, Barbara. Lydia certainly sounded like it was a new development."

"Who knows how many other ways he's taken advantage of her? I can't just sit here, Adam, I have to do something!"

He looked concernedly at her over his glasses. She was standing next to the couch now, chewing on her thumbnail and he almost smiled despite himself; his Barbara, furious and magnificent, like a lioness defending her young.

"Honey, you know what happened last time we didn't think things through," he said gently, knowing the warning would fall on deaf ears. She was already making a beeline for the door to the waiting room, the steel under her softness shining through. He sighed and followed her.

* * *

Lydia had fallen asleep a few hours ago; the sun was sinking on the horizon, casting horizontal light through her bedroom and giving her a kind of glow in the dimming twilight. She'd turned away and rolled off his shoulder while she slept and he didn't make any effort to hold her there. It wasn't that he didn't want to, but she… he rested his head in his hands. Goddamn mortals and their utter inability to grasp the _point_.

It wasn't about the scam anymore. Well, it was, but the scam wasn't a scam. It was exactly what it seemed to be.

Just his luck that the one mortal girl who wouldn't fall for his tricks… wouldn't fall for his tricks. God_damn_. She'd been so pliable as a kid – well, not really, she'd caught on to his first attempt and if he was totally honest, the second had only succeeded because she didn't have a cynical bone in her body, back then, and would have given anything to save her friends… he wanted her to trust him, he found. And not for the usual reason; he just wanted her to trust him, to… stay with him, _be his_. He probably couldn't put it that way, though, she didn't come from a period that understood what that meant. His. To protect, to provide for, _to have and to hold__until death do you part_ –

_A flash of time-drenched and worn memory like a fading photograph a dark-haired woman laughing a man kneeling at her side pressing his hand to her stomach swelled with child _

– where the hell had that come from? He shook his head, looking over at Lydia again. She wasn't just another mark and the way he'd come to see it that didn't make him soft or mean he was losing his edge. He'd still get what he was after, right? It would just be a more enjoyable experience for all involved, except the Maitlands and her parents but who gave a fuck about them?

No one had come up to check on her. He could hazard a guess why – Lydia was basically a good girl, they'd be thinking, this fling must just be a rebellious phase, she's probably already seen the error of her ways. Except the Maitlands, they might be off tryin' to dig up some dirt on him. He snorted. Let them try. He was within his rights to try and fulfill the terms of the contract with a willing mortal.­

She turned over on her back and opened her eyes.

"Beej?" she said, voice thin and cracked from sleep.

"'M right here, babe."

"How long was I asleep?"

"Few hours."

She pushed herself up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, perching there with her back to him and her shoulders hunched. He wanted to go to her so he did, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and getting her to lean against him. She tolerated it for half a second and then pushed away, standing and muttering about needing a glass of water. He watched her go, eyes dark, and wondered what happened next; this wasn't entirely within his realm of experience. Frankly, he didn't know why she hadn't slapped him across the face and ordered him out of her life by now. It _was_ the usual reaction when they figured out whatever scheme he was working on.

When she came back holding a glass of water and, ignoring him, sat down in front of her vanity he got up and went to stand behind her, resting a tentative hand on her shoulder. She met his gaze levelly in the mirror.

"Lyds…"

She almost responded and he spoke quickly to stop it, not wanting to hear anything just yet; there was something shuddering and stretching between them almost to breaking point and he wasn't sure he wanted to know what would happen when it did, so he would do his best to hold things as they were and hope the situation resolved itself. That was all you could do, when a con went bad.

"Lemme brush your hair." It wasn't entirely a request, as he was already picking up the hairbrush as he said it. She had fallen asleep with hair still wet from the shower and now it was sticking out all over the place like a dark halo. He took a handful and started working through the snarls, his knuckles brushing against the back of her neck.

"You aren't cold."

"Hmm? Oh, nah. Afterlife doesn't have any warmth to it; spend enough time in the living world, though, and I get up t'room temperature."

"So you aren't cold, exactly, just… whatever your environment is."

"You could say that, babe."

He had the uncomfortable feeling she was talking about something else and was rather relieved when she didn't say anything further. Brushing out her hair took less time than he thought – it was fine and soft and fell into place with minimal coaxing, eventually leaving him running his fingers through it just for the pleasure of it, and then down her neck, across her jaw, the pure warmth of her like a drink of water after a drought…

"I don't understand you," she said, pulling slightly away. He whined slightly, pulling her back, and she rested her head on his stomach. "Why are you still here? I… I _know_ what you're up to, what all this has been about."

"No, ya don't," he said, knowing he was projecting an air of confidence bordering on smugness.

"Then what is it about?" she demanded abruptly, tearing herself away and standing up, moving far enough away that he couldn't reach out and pull her back. "What other motive could you possibly have for – all this?"

"I want you to marry me," he said simply, raising an eyebrow. "'S pretty simple, Lyds."

"Yes, so you can get out of the afterlife, I know that – "

"Only half of it," he smirked, advancing on her and feeling some of his equilibrium return. She held her ground, not that he'd expected anything less, and he stopped just short of embracing her, holding himself barely an inch away. "There's other reasons t'marry, you know."

She took a slight step backwards at that, eyes shadowed and he knew she understood.

"Whaddya say, babes?" he whispered, leaning in further. "…_Lydia_." The name felt like a prayer and he knew he wasn't quite himself anymore; she'd wriggled under his skin and made him someone else, and the odd part was that he didn't really mind. Eyes hooded, he stayed exactly where he was, waiting.

After an eternity of stillness she raised one hand, fingers curved and if he looked closely, trembling, and touched just the tips to his face.

"I... don't know. How can I trust anything you say?"

"Have I ever lied to you?" He hadn't, he knew that. Backed her into a corner or skimmed over details of his personal life, sure, all the damn time, but he had never outright _lied_. That he was sure of.

"…no. Not that I know of…"

"So trust me."

She almost pulled back and he grabbed her hand gently, pressing it to his face and never taking his eyes off hers. "I wouldn't hurt you. Ever." The teasing, coaxing tone was gone and with good reason: he was telling a deep truth now, gambling everything on her perception and with no way of ensuring the outcome because there were some things even he didn't dare say out loud.

When her other hand came up to twine in his wiry hair, he was almost sure he had her; and when she carefully pressed her mouth to his, he knew he did.

* * *

Barbara wasn't sure where she was; she had been walking through the green mist, Adam trailing behind, and there had been a terrible rising hum like a downed power line and something had tripped her and sent her spinning. Everything had gone dark, and when she opened her eyes she was… here, wherever here was. It was a hall of some kind, the walls and pillars soaring past human perception into a ceiling that she could swear was the night sky, only that wasn't possible because the hall was bright as day and there had to be a roof.

The floor was checkered black and white, and the pillars were smooth red-grey marbled stone. It looked like some demented dream of a gothic cathedral, without pews or an altar, and the walls were lined with… with…

* * *

He wrapped his arms around her, carefully deepening the kiss she had begun and drinking as deep as he dared, taking as much as she would let him of her heat, her willingness… she was trembling and he moved to kiss the corners of her mouth, her closed eyes, bending his head to her neck and finally just picking her up and carrying her to the bed, laying her gently on it and leaning over her. She looked afraid – he held back, looking at her for a long moment.

"Lydia… if you don't…"

She was breathing heavily and looked starkly vulnerable, pale and small in her bathrobe against black sheets; about how he felt, poised shivering on the edge of forever. She raised her hand and pressed it against his collarbone, spreading her fingers over cloth that her heat penetrated easily, warming the cool skin below. He closed his eyes and swallowed hard.

"_Please…_" and it was a whisper so quiet she almost didn't hear it, thought she couldn't have heard it until he opened his eyes and she saw it written in his gaze.

* * *

Bookshelves. Thousands of bookshelves stretching out into infinity and books, millions of them, double-shelved and stacked on top of each other. She climbed unsteadily to her feet, leaning on a pillar and whirled, frightened, at a creaking, rattling sound that bounced off the stone and paper and echoed around her until she couldn't tell _where_ it was coming from, getting louder and louder until… it stopped and she stood shivering and afraid, hugging herself.

"Oh, dear. Did I startle you?" someone said behind her. Barbara whirled and saw a willowy woman dressed in a dark yellow, vaguely Grecian dress standing behind her with both feet on the bottommost rung of a sliding ladder and hanging idly from one hand. "I'm terribly sorry." Her voice was rich and clear; her eyes were a peculiar, shifting amber, wide and staring in her pale, thin face and giving her an expression of permanent surprise

"Who are you?" Barbara choked out. "Where am I?"

* * *

He held himself very, very still as her hand crept down to the hem of his shirt – he'd zapped in still wearing the suit from last night, though he'd lost the jacket – wishing he still had a breath to hold. She was sitting up now, kneeling on the bed, level with him and studiously avoiding his face, concentrating on the task at hand as though her life depended on it. She was nervous, more then he was (though he was finding that a little hard to believe, what with him being so close to achieving _two_ goals at once), and he didn't want her to be – though he found himself at an utter loss for how to calm her.

And then her hand slid under his shirt and began to tentatively explore the skin below and he decided that careful exploration of her sexuality could bloody well wait; he'd settle for making her scream. He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her close, kissing her and pushing her down on the bed before turning his attention to her free hand, kissing the palm and the inside of the wrist, feeling her other hand at his hip burning like a brand… he thought dimly that it would be only fair if it left a mark before undoing the knot in her robe's sash.

* * *

"Oh! You know, it's been so many years since I've had a visitor that I've forgotten. I suppose you should call me Merope. And – well, you're in my library." The strange woman stepped off the humming ladder and patted it as it rolled away, solving the mystery of the echoing creak. "You _are_ Barbara Maitland, aren't you? I haven't got the wrong person? You'd be amazed at how difficult it can be to arrange things properly."

"I – yes, I am, but what – "

"Wonderful! Only we haven't got much time – " she started walking quickly along the shelves, trailing her fingers over the books and reading the spines. Barbara tried to catch a glimpse of the titles as she half-jogged to keep up with her and found that she couldn't read them; though they looked as though they were written in English her mind refused to make sense of the words. " – I know I put it around here somewhere… ah-_ha_. Here," she said, plucking a slim volume from the shelf. "Read it."

Confused, Barbara opened it to the first page. "I don't see – "

"_Whoa, no need for that," he said, putting up his hands and taking a step back. "I'm just here to… to…" He flailed around for a decent excuse. "…apologize! Yeah. See, it's part 'a my punishment, I gotta make amends, kiss up a little, write a few cards, clean a few highways… all part of showing how I'm a redeemed soul these days."_

"_I don't believe you." The flyswatter was still hovering up by her shoulder and he couldn't help eyeing it nervously and backing away a bit more._

* * *

She was writhing underneath him, gasping and wringing her hands in the sheets; nice to know he hadn't lost anything in the long span of near-celibacy. Her skin was flushed; he leaned in, murmuring hoarsely.

"Open your eyes."

* * *

"_Hey, babes, I don't expect you to believe me, I just want you to know that I am really, truly, deeply sorry," he said in his best sincere voice, which frankly wasn't all that good, but it wasn't like he could help seeing everything as a joke, a scam, a series of levers to pull… not when there wasn't any evidence to the contrary. She eyed him suspiciously._

"_Look, you obviously don't wanna hear it, so I'll just take my leave… though – " and here was where he cast the dice; if he had a beating heart it would have been pounding through his chest. " – I thought you might appreciate the company, since it's Halloween and all, and you're alone…"_

_The flyswatter lowered a little and he let out a breath, quietly, pretty sure she couldn't see. _

"_How do you know I'm alone?"_

* * *

Dark eyes fluttered open, dilated and glazed and he felt a surge of pure satisfaction as he pressed just _there_ and her back arched, her toes curling and mouth moving in wordless, animal sounds; _he_ had done this, brought her to the point of senselessness and it was he – no one else – who was guiding her down from it, slowly, almost feeling it with her and it was _him_ that she was looking at, languid and smiling like a satisfied cat…

* * *

"_Well, you know how it is, guy has to go make amends, he wants to check things out a little first, see if it's a good time…"_

"_You were spying on me!" And up went the flyswatter again._

"_No, babe, no, nothing like that – well, maybe a little, but hey – can ya blame me? Last time I barged into your life I ended up on a one-way ticket to solitary confinement for three years. Excuse a guy for being a little nervous." Perfect – the flyswatter went down again. The whole story was a load of bull, of course, with just enough truth sprinkled in to hold it all together – he hadn't been spying (he couldn't, from where they'd stuck him), it'd been a lucky guess based on her expression and a few other things, missing coats and the like, but mostly it'd been pure dumb luck. And he hadn't been in solitary, though considering the company they stuck him with he might as well have been alone; not an interesting thought in their heads, most of them, and no way to pull a scam, no powers to make his stay entertaining…_

"_Solitary?"_

_He managed to work up a hangdog expression and lowered his hands, shoving them in his coat pockets. _

"_Yeah. It's what they do to hard-knock cases like yours truly. Three years in one room, without anything to do – you can't leave, and no one can come in. No light, no entertainment, nothing but one bare room."_

_The flyswatter lowered even more and was that perhaps a spark of sympathy in her eyes? He grinned internally._

"_I'm sorry."_

* * *

It hurt her to let him in the first time despite all he'd done to prepare her for it and he held as still as he dared, surrounded by pulsating heat that practically begged him to _move_, and finally she began to rock tentatively against him. He took the lead again, going slowly to let her catch the pace….

* * *

"_Hey, not the first time." That was a flagrant lie, but anything to fan the flames. "Besides, I'm supposed to be apologizing to you."_

_She was giving him that look again._

"_If you've been punished like that before, why do you keep… you know… breaking rules?"_

"_Birds gotta swim, fish gotta fly, you know? Can't help how I was made. Anyway, if you're not gonna let me out so I can really make things up to ya, I'll just be on my way and hope the administration buys it."_

"…_What do you mean?"_

"_Well, see, you have to accept my apology before I can be fully released; this is kind of like time off for good behavior, you know? I apologize to everyone I've hurt, they let me out, you're the last one, if I don't make full restitution I go back in the cell but hey, I can't make you accept my apology. I did my best; maybe it'll be enough." He turned away, slumping his shoulders; partially for pathos, but mostly to hide the wicked smile as he started to walk away._

* * *

Heat and chill, life and unlife, male and female; it was the oldest dance with a new twist, extremes meeting… her nails dug into his back as he bent over her, gasping, and she drew him closer, her legs wrapping around his waist.

* * *

_((One… two… three…))_

"_Wait!"_

_He looked over his shoulder, managing to keep his expression dejected._

"_Yeah?"_

"_If I let you out… you won't try anything?"_

"_Cross my heart, babe," he said, crossing his fingers in one pocket._

"…_and if I don't let you, they'll lock you up again, won't they?"_

"_I'm hopin' they won't." He turned his head again and kept walking. ((C'mon, say it!))_

* * *

She cried out, muffling it in her shoulder and arched against him for a second time, pressed so close and filled with so much warmth he could swear he'd die again, just go up in flames from the inside out.

* * *

"_Betelgeuse."_

"_Babes?_

"_Betelgeuse, Betelgeuse!"_

_YES! The world spun around him, opening up to accept him; for a moment he couldn't think of his plans, just that he was out, free…_

* * *

He groaned from somewhere deep in his gut, knowing he was close, and forced his eyes opened – he wanted to _see_ her, dammit –

* * *

– Barbara staggered back and dropped the book as if it had burned her.

"He _lied_ to her! She thinks – that's why – "

* * *

The world exploded in color and heat and he was dimly aware of almost collapsing on top of her, of catching himself at the last minute and rolling to one side, taking her with him and holding her close, murmuring nonsense he meant every word of and stroking her sweat-soaked hair as they lay there in a daze, her head on his chest, the sheets rumpled beyond recognition.

* * *

The strange woman – Merope – tilted her head at Barbara. "That _was_ what you wanted to know, wasn't it? How it all started?"

"Yes. I just – oh, that _bastard_. I have to get home – she has to know – "

"Oh, well, that's _easy_. Here." She waved a hand and a portal appeared accompanied by the same strong buzzing as before, the edges wavering as if in a strong wind. Barbara stepped though and found herself in the attic, Adam staring at her.

"Barbara?"

"Oh, Adam!" She threw herself at her husband, wanting nothing more than his comforting presence. "I found out _everything._ He's been lying to Lydia since the beginning – he played on her sympathy, and you know how soft-hearted she is. I have to tell her right away."

* * *

Lydia had recovered first, disappearing into the bathroom and coming back fully clothed to sit awkwardly next to Betelgeuse – who was still unashamedly and rather smugly naked – arms wrapped around her knees.

"So… what now?"

"You name the date, I find the church, we get hitched," he said casually, eyes closed. "And deal with it from there."

"My parents, though…"

He sat up, sheets pooling around his waist and she avoided looking at… you know, _that_… blushing fiercely and keeping her eyes at shoulder level and above. He smirked at that, briefly, before settling into an uncommonly serious expression.

"Babe, you gotta start making your own choices sooner or later."

"They're my _parents_. I can't just – waltz off with a poltergeist!"

"What've they got to object to? Contract says I keep a good portion of my powers after the marriage. I can provide for you better 'n any living man, an' since my life'll be bound to yours I got damn good reason to keep you alive and happy."

"…contract? What?"

He draped an arm around her shoulders, idly playing with a strand of her hair. "I have a bargain with the Powers That Be, you know. Thousand years before the mast kind of thing. Not really sure how or why I got it, memory gets a little bad after a hundred years; I think it was part of my original haunting obligations. Anyway, doesn't matter. Basically, you marry me, and I get free reign to exist in the land a' the living for as long as your life lasts."

"And then you what, find another girl?"

"Dunno. You're the first one to appreciate my unique charms, babe."

She laughed, leaning against him. "I never thought I'd hear you admit to failure."

"Hey, I didn't fail. They just had no taste," he muttered, nuzzling her as she batted him away.

"Beej!"

"I got husbandly rights, you know!"

"Not yet you don't. And I can still make you sleep on the couch."

"Just try it," he grumbled, withdrawing and crossing his arms irritably. "Most wanted man in the afterlife and she's threatening to make me sleep on the couch…"

"Wanted for what, parole violations?" She cracked up as he glared at her, getting off the bed and going to the door. "I'm starved – I haven't eaten since yesterday. Do you want something?"

"Yeah, but it can wait," he leered. She rolled her eyes, hiding her fear. He had a way of making everything sound so simple, as if they could just go, get married, and deal with everything after; she still wasn't even sure she _wanted_ to marry, just that she wanted _him_, and there were the Maitlands… she couldn't choose between him and her family just like that…

She opened the door and found herself face-to-face with Barbara.

"Lydia, there's something you need to know – what is _he_ doing here?" The ghost glared over her shoulder at Betelgeuse, and Lydia turned around quickly, hoping he'd managed to cloth himself. He had – a small mercy – and Barbara advanced on him.

"You _horrible_ little man!"

He put up his hands and backed up, eyes wide. "Whoa, Babs, if this is about that time in the model, I can explain - "

Which was when she slapped him. "You _pervert._ You _lied_ to her!"

"What?" Shock drained the blood from Lydia's face; she felt curiously light-headed. "Barbara, what are you talking about?"

"He's lied to you from the beginning, Lydia. He was never in solitary confinement, he was in the waiting room at the administration, and I know because I went down once to see Juno and saw him there! He was _sleeping_. And there was never any apology, because Juno told us we would be notified as to what he was being punished with, and a temporary reduction in his powers was the most she could get because there wasn't any permanent damage!"

Lydia turned to him, eyes wide. "Is it true?" she whispered.

"Well, I, uh – "

"He wanted your sympathy so you'd let him out." Neither of them were listening to Barbara anymore; Betelgeuse was standing with his hands out, defensive, so like Halloween night two years ago she could laugh except it wasn't funny.

"_Is it true?_" she demanded, feeling the world spin out from under her and a tiny, treacherous corner of her mind wanted desperately for it to be, because it would take the choice out of her hands; it would make everything so wonderfully simple…

"It's complicated, I mean, it was before I got t'know ya – "

"So it's true. You _lied_. You _lied_, and I _believed_ you." Her voice was winding to a hysterical pitch as she stalked forward, hand clenching into fists. "What else have you lied about? The contract? How the marriage would work? Being in _love_ with me? Oh, wait, you never actually said you were – I suppose that means it doesn't count as a _lie_."

That small corner of her mind rejoiced, because everything was easy now, it was beyond her control, she only had one option left.

"Babes, listen t' me, just for a sec – " There was real fear in his voice, and something dark in her delighted in it.

"Betelgeuse."

"Ya gotta believe me, Lyds, it isn't – " Fear and hysteria now, his eyes wide and frightened.

"_Betelgeuse_."

"Lydia, _please_," and his voice was hoarse with desperation; she almost paused, something crying out against the tide of fearful rage and the overwhelming desire to just give in, let things take the only possible course, not fight what was expected of her – only it was too late –

"Betelgeuse!"


	5. Chapter Five

**Disclaimers: First set of lyrics are "San Andreas Fault," by the incomparable Natalie Merchant. Second set is "Silent Legacy," by Melissa Etheridge.  
**

**A/N: Boy howdy, this took forever to churn out. Fair warning: the crack is _strong_ in this one, and as I said last chapter, it only gets worse and culminates in something I am quite sure will every single person in this section howling for my blood.**

**Speaking of, it has come to my attention that some people do not appreciate movieverse fics. Now, I thought long and hard as to how I should respond, if I should respond, and then I finally thought: what would Betelgeuse do? So – **

**Dear WitchyWanda,**

**OMG UR JUS JELUOS. The cartoon is soooooooo imautre, hoa can u watch that???!!!!!1111 Obvosly u cant graso teh DEEP MAENING of teh movie! Also you are a blue meanie poopoohead.**

**XXOO**

**Ayezur "Maturity is for those who can't handle insanity" Draca**

**Seriously, people, it's not the end of the world. That goes for WitchyW and the two people who took issue with her, which in a fandom this small practically counts as a flame war. We are united in our love of the Beej and should all get along. Eeebony and iiiivory, side-by-side in perfect haaaarmoniiiii…**

* * *

There was something inexpressibly lonely about her dorm room, bare white walls broken by only by bare blonde-wood furniture. Boxes piled in corners, on the undressed yellowish mattress; she was shocked to find how easily her whole life fit into three boxes and a suitcase of clothing. A clean slate, her father had said. Something new. No ghosts here; just white and blonde unending.

Months have passed and she can still feel the cold trace of his fingers on her skin.

Lydia sighed and sat down at the desk, resting her head on her arms and remembering as her art-deco watch pressed into the skin of her cheek and left a pattern like a gate another night, long ago, and a similar pose. The sun was sinking low beneath the skyline, a glowing ember, when she finally sat up and started to unpack. First she opened a window; the whole damn place smelled like old socks. Music from somewhere next door filtered in.

_San Andreas fault moved its fingers through the ground  
Earth divided, plates collided – such an awful sound  
San Andreas fault moved its fingers through the ground  
Terra cotta shattered, and the walls came tumbling down_

She listened to it idly as she unpacked, fingers pausing their automatic movements when a heavily contralto voice was raised in anger, a one-sided conversation until she realized her neighbor must be on the phone. Whatever was happening had the same bright and violent tone as the quick-flaring battles between the wilder girls at Ms. Shannon's, the ones who came to school with club tops under their peter pan collars and frosted, glinting eyes. Lydia did her best to ignore it, but it was hard when the music suddenly stopped and began again, a new song this time, intensely and brutally bitter.

_You are digging for the answers until your fingers bleed  
To satisfy the hunger – to satiate the need, they  
Feed you on your guilt to keep you humble, keep you low  
Some man and myth they made up a thousand years ago and as you pray  
In your darkness  
For wings to set you free  
You are bound to your silent legacy_

It was easier to close her window, then.

* * *

Reduced to watching, that's all he can find it in himself to do; there are no mirrors in the afterlife and so he keeps kneeling over a makeshift scrying bowl (really a wok left behind by some ex-lover or other, or possibly taken from a haunting, or some other thing; but the odd remnant of domesticity littering the place was generally the result of a woman), watching. She looks good, she always looks amazing even when she's stumbling half-asleep into the kitchen for coffee. 

She never talks about him. No one mentions him, and if she writes about him or cries over him he can never catch her at it, but he hears her murmur his name (too damn soft and too few times to set him free!) at night and knows he isn't forgotten. He could handle anything but that.

He can't watch all the time. Sometimes one the Maitlands'll start looking over their shoulder, puzzled, and then he has to withdraw in case they discover him. What's he's doing isn't strictly legal and certainly isn't healthy but he can't do anything else; she's crawled into him and burrowed into the deepest places, soft truthful bits so lost he'd forgotten they'd ever been buried. The part of him that's still _him_ – still cold and sly – keeps screaming why, why her of all people?

Why light? the new, devastatingly familiar softness answers back. Why breath and heat and sun and moon and darkness? It just is.

She's working some strange alchemical change on him – memories are flooding back like so many waterstained photographs of someone he thinks he was, long ago – and it terrifies him enough that he wants to hate her.

* * *

It couldn't really have been love, she kept telling herself. If it had been… that… she would be pining away, not going through her daily life like nothing had changed. She'd be seeing his face on every streetcorner or however the old songs went, but as it was she actively noticed how every man she met was absolutely nothing like him and never seemed to dream anymore. 

"Yeah, college is great… no! No, I have not met anyone special! Jesus, Barbara, it's only been a month." She bent over and pulled a carton of orange juice out of her minifridge, drinking straight from the carton and frowning as some spilled on her ragged white shirt. "I have my whole life ahead of me… no, no, nothing's been happening. Nothing. I swear. Can we not talk about it? …okay. _Okay_. I know. I love you too. Put Adam on, would you? …oh? Wow. That's great; I didn't think your contract was up for negotiation for another couple hundred years. …Compensation? Well, that makes sense. Tell him I said I. Love to you both."

She hung up and pulled her slightly aged grilled cheese out of the microwave, guiltily telling herself that it was still good. A day wasn't that long, and it didn't look moldy, and she'd gotten back from her studio class too late to catch a meal at the dining hall.

As college progressed, she was beginning to think regular meals and sleep patterns were things she had only dreamed.

Someone knocked on her door and called out. "Lydia! Lydia friggin' Deetz, open this door!"

"What is it, Annie?"

"Dude, there's been some kinda huge friggin' accident right outside the dorm. Are you deaf, woman? Come and see! There's cops and EMTs all over the place."

"Alright, alright…" Lydia glanced at her computer, then rationalized that she had all weekend to write that paper, anyway. Holding her reheated sandwich in one hand, she slid into the worn fuzzy bunny slippers she'd brought with her – the nail polish she had used to paint them black as a child having long since dried and made the external fur stick out in odd clumps – and shuffled out the door, not bothering to put on a coat. Early fall nights were warm in Manhattan, and if she got cold she'd just go back inside.

She wasn't the only person interested in rubbernecking, and by the time she got downstairs the cops had erected barricades; all she could see over the crowd in front of her were flashing lights, and all she could hear were the shouts of police officers and the groans of the wounded. Steam from the accident drifted gently into the cool night air and as a particularly tall jock moved aside, she could finally see what had happened. A tour bus filled with people had been run into by a rather large SUV, leaving heaps of mangled screaming metal, broken glass and twisted, melted rubber. Someone grabbed her elbow.

"Miss? I'm going to have to ask you to come with me."

She half-turned: a policeman was speaking to her, eyes shadowed by his hat (why was he wearing a hat none of the others were wearing a hat) and she opened her mouth to ask what it was all about when the world spun out of control to the rising hum of bees.

* * *

Half-dozing in her office, Juno suddenly bolted straight up, eyes flaring hate and fury. So. That was her game.

* * *

Lydia spun into consciousness in a violent coughing fit, her insides squeezing until she thought she would die, unable to gasp in another breath. A cool hand stroked through her hair and the coughing stopped; she crouched and breathed, too weak to move. 

"I _am_ sorry. The transition is hard on mortals. I didn't have a choice, you know."

The voice was honey-sweet and bore a strange buzzing undertone; whoever it was handed her a glass of cool, clear water and she drank greedily before opening her eyes. She was crouched against a marble wall in what looked like an old Greek temple, roofless, its pillars fallen at odd angles and the sky above swirling through days in a matter of seconds.

"Where am I?"

"Oh, it doesn't matter. I'm Merope," the strange woman said, helping her to her feet. "I have a great deal I need to explain and very little time to do it in, so hush and listen and follow me."

With that, she took off walking towards the other end of the temple and Lydia realized it was huge, much larger than the actual space seemed to be; but time and space seemed a bit wonky here. She dropped the glass and it vanished before it hit the floor, running to keep up with the woman.

"You see, Lydia, I'm… well, not exactly a goddess, and not exactly an avatar, and not exactly a manifestation, and really all of these three and none of them… anyway, dear child, I serve the stories. I store them like honey in my great hive and I find it so very upsetting when a story goes wrong, like yours is. Don't interrupt," she chided as Lydia tried to speak. "Where was I? Ah yes. Well, every world has its mirrors and you and your charming deceased lover have their counterparts, who managed to sort things out without my help. Imagine, daughter, that there was once a man who loved a woman with all the passion in his great lion's heart and that that woman was taken from him; imagine the bitterness he would feel! Imagine his death, alone and bitter and filled with impotent rage. Imagine his despair when he discovered that his love was nowhere he could reach on the other side; imagine the hate that would grow in him, consume him like a cancer and leave nothing of the man he once was. That would rebirth him as a creature that lived to manipulate and abuse others, seeking only to achieve his goal of _freedom_ – freedom to find his wife in her new form and see her safe and happy for the rest of her days. Except imagine, my child, my dear, dear, child, that he no longer remembers why he wishes to be free, only that he does. Imagine the canker-worm of his hate eating away until he becomes only a set of _appetites_, with no true reason driving it. What sort of bargain might he make then, I wonder?"

Somewhere in Merope's speech they had arrived at the other end of the temple, where a great stone lay chained over a steel door set in the rocky ground.

"Now imagine he happens to find a girl, a living girl, who holds in her eyes the faint glimmer of the woman he loved. Would he not seek to be with her, not knowing why? Of course he would. She would not know, nor he, but he would be drawn to her like iron to lodestone and she, perhaps, to him? Of course you understand. Now imagine in one world he finds her young, with parents who while loving simply cannot grasp her full nature, and insinuates himself as her companion, her guardian through a thousand childhood dangers – many of them his own fault – never letting her know for a second how much danger she may truly be in. Perhaps they fade apart with the passing of years, perhaps they stay friends, perhaps they become somewhat more, but either way the story is complete. Now imagine he finds her older, under the protection of beings not kindly disposed towards him and parents so utterly mundane they've come close to crushing that bare spark of his beloved entirely. Would he not take drastic measures, all unknowing, and win her heart? But she is not like her mirror, no; she is older and half-lost to waves of _thou shalts_ and _thou shalt nots_, and she rejects him in the end, and the story is unfinished. Do you understand?"

"…no…" Lydia had barely been able to keep up with the barrage of words, much less understand them, and Merope shook her head sadly.

"Ah, well, I have made provision for this." She waved a hand over the boulder and the chains undid themselves, pushing the boulder away before lying limp on the ground. With another wave the steel door opened, revealing a yawning black pit, and she moved to stand next to Lydia.

"The mundus memoriarum," she said by way of explanation, and pushed Lydia in.

It seemed she fell forever without the physical sensation of movement; she knew she was falling, and still it seemed her body stayed in one place, floating. It was more as though her mind was pitched through blackness, snippets of images and words spoken into void rushing by her. A sickly boy screaming at a convenience store clerk; a dragon soaring against a gleaming red star. "Love me – only love me and I would be as gentle as a lamb!" A shriveled creature in a dank cave, huddle dark and covetous. A boy who became the sun and flew too close to scorch the earth. "I speak now because I wish the truth to be known. If I am to be judged, let it be by my deeds." A blind girl dancing, sword cutting air to ribbons; a man with hair like flame throws back his head and laughs. She fell and kept falling, down, down, down… "We're all mad here."

And then the sensation of falling ceased and the darkness cleared as though she had simply opened her eyes. She was not-quite-standing – a glance downward revealed she had no physical presence – in a simple house with a packed dirt floor covered in rugs and cut reeds. Everything bore a sense of painful newness; bright shining wood, clay dishes and iron tools just taken from the fires of kiln and forge. A fire was laid but not lit; as she tried to understand what had happened, the door was flung open and a tall man with a shaggy mane of blond hair barely contained by a leather thong walked in, carrying a laughing young woman with dark hair and darker eyes. Eyes glinting, he started towards a door in the far wall, through which she could see the corner of a bed and a rocking chair set to catch the sun. The woman he was carrying began to struggle and smacked him on the shoulder indignantly; he set her down and cupped her face in his hands, looking at her with a faint smile of disbelief and wonder. She smiled at him, love gleaming in her eyes, and kissed him soft and sweetly before turning away and taking the flint and tinder from the mantle. Before she could light the fire, though, he grabbed her around the waist and pulled her back; she shrieked in laughter and he wrapped his arms around her waist, burying his face in the crook of her neck.

"You chose me," he said, and Lydia knew somehow that he was speaking a different language, or a form of English so old it might as well be, but it seemed clear to her; the only clear thing in a scene she seemed to be viewing underwater or as part of a dream. "Out of all you could have had, you chose me."

"And what could they offer me, beloved?" she said, turning to rest her hands on his shoulders. "A fine house? This house is fine enough for my needs, and built by your own hands. Silk and gold, dresses and jewels? I've no need of such things. Could they give me their hearts, their love, their loyalty forever? No. And not a one of them could make me feel as you do, as if the angels themselves had given me wings." She kissed him again, and when it broke he rested his forehead against hers.

"I'm not all I should be, my heart. You deserve fine things, and servants to keep your hands from ever aging, but what I have is yours."

"All I want," she smiled and pressed a hand over his heart, "is here." And they kissed again, deeply, and did not stop.

The world _flipped_ and she was standing in the bedroom now, the woman visibly pregnant and sitting in the rocking chair, sewing something. The man was sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling on his boots, when the woman suddenly started.

"Oh my!"

"What is it?"

"The baby just kicked – there it goes again!"

He dropped to his knees and laid a hand on her stomach, face lighting with wonder at what he felt there. Her hand covered his and squeezed lightly. "Do you know yet if it's a boy or a girl?" he asked?

"No. Mother Agnes says there are ways, but I've known them to be wrong. All the signs said I would be a boy, after all. Do you have a wish?"

"No. Whatever the child may be, with my blood it can't help but be talented, charming – "

" – conceited, arrogant – " she teased. He cast her an exaggerated and wounded look and continued.

"And _modest._ And of course, it'll be as beautiful and kind as its mother."

"Well, at least the babe will have some good qualities."

He grinned up at her, the sharp wolf's grin Lydia knew almost as well as her own –

The world flipped again and she was back in the main room, watching the man pace and sit, sit and pace, unable to keep still, while pained cries sounded from the bedroom. The door was tightly shut, and every so often he'd go and stand in front of it, reaching out a hand as if he were going to open it, then turn away and resume pacing and sitting, sitting and pacing…

It seemed hours passed that way, and then the cries died away and left only heart-stopping silence. Another eternity ticked by in the beat between seconds, and a stout middle-aged woman stepped out of the room, wiping bloody hands. He stood.

"Is – ?"

He read the answer in her grave face and cried out like a wounded animal, rushing past her into the bedroom. Lydia felt herself following without having willed herself to do so and saw the woman from before lying on bloodstained sheet – _too much blood too much blood_ – pale and stiffening with death. A child – skin blue and eyes frozen shut, never to open – was laid beside her.

"The birth was breech, and tore her as it came. The babe had strangled itself in the womb. There was nothing I could do," the midwife said from behind him. He seemed not to hear her and knelt at the dead woman's side, taking her hand and bending his head. Lydia realized he was crying – terrible, rending sobs – and the midwife stood silently in the doorway, allowing him the dignity of his grief.

The world flipped once more and the bed was clean and neat, all traces of blood gone, all death cleared. The man was standing at the side of it, staring at it with horror and loathing, then turned and walked away. She followed, pulled along against her will, tasting what would come next and not wanting to see, not wanting to know how he had died because she knew – suspected, but at the same time _knew_ – who he was, who he would become, and what Merope had meant.

He walked with cold dead eyes to a lake on the edge of the village and kept walking when he reached the edge, until the water closed over his head and not even bubbles came up.

Another flip, and she was in what she guessed was Juno's office; a strange place of angles and darkness and bureaucratic decay. The man – it seemed so wrong to use _that_ name! – was sitting across from a Juno who looked too young to be the one the Maitlands had described, but bore the same slit throat.

"So. Garvan Dunlavy. You're looking for your wife, Lea?"

"Yes," he said, voice subdued. "I know as a suicide I have no right to heaven's mercy, but just to see her – to know she was alright – I'll gladly bear the sufferings of hell with the knowledge that she rests at peace."

"Stop mouthing phrases you don't believe in," she snapped. "If you did, you wouldn't have ended up here. As for your wife," she shuffled some paperwork, "_she's_ moved on. Unlike you, she knew what she expected out of the afterlife. This is just for people who can't move beyond their lives."

He sat silently for a long moment. "Then she is beyond my reach?"

"Unless you manage to attain peace with your life and death, yes. And good luck with that – hardly five people a century succeed at it, once they're here."

"Then I will leave you." He stood to go and she slapped a hand on the desk.

"Not so fast. You're a suicide – that means extra paperwork for us, which means you owe us payment."

"What?"

Chains snaked out from nowhere and wrapped around his wrist, tugging and dragging until he began to walk where the demanded.

"It means until your sentence is lifted, you work for us."

A flip, and she was in a place where time and space had no meaning; object whirled by and aged or grew young as they flew. Contorted faces rose to the surface of the air and faded before they screamed, writhing in agony, and Garvan stood in the center of this insane maelstrom, manacled wrists raised. His blond hair was streaked white, and his skin was already turning white as death.

_Anything?_ a voice boomed out from everywhere. _You would trade anything to have her back?_

"Yes!" he cried out, voice cracked and broken. "Promise me her, and I'll give you whatever you want."

Crazed and screaming laughter, and then: _The price is your name!_

The maelstrom grew wilder, swirling around the man with his desperate eyes until she couldn't see him anymore, just blurs of color and motion until it all fell away, taking his chains – and it was him, as she knew it had to be. Wild and matted hair, dark dead eyes cold and glinting as iron, hints of green like poison jade, mold-rotted, chalk-white skin.

He threw back his head and laughed, wild and mad, and she understood: he had said he'd trade anything, and whatever he traded with took _everything_.

Even his name.


	6. Chapter Six

**A/N: One more chapter to go, kiddies. This was probably the hardest to write, and I bet you a delicious cookie it shows; I had to try and get all the balls I've been juggling down in the right places at the right time without giving too much away; hafta save something for the denouement. But after the next chpater I am done, done I say, never to darken your inboxes again!**

**Why yes, Virginia, it is mad short. Trust Auntie 'yezur. **

**I fully expect to lose, like, all of you after this pure crack and omgwtfery of this chapter. I will not be offended if you must tell me how I'm totally pulling this out of my ass because, you know… I am.**

* * *

He hadn't been watching. He had gotten up, just for a minute, just to stretch his legs and he hadn't been watching and she had vanished, not even the trace of her aura in the air. Something had taken her and he hadn't been watching and there was nothing he could do.

Someone pounded on his door; the long, slightly rotted arm of the law, he thought dismissively. The administration was such a hulking behemoth it was easy for him to slip through cracks and around corners, vanish in paperwork as long as he made sure to keep a few steps ahead but he'd been watching, lately, and incautious…

He hadn't been watching and something had taken her.

He didn't even struggle when they put the chains back on his wrists.

* * *

The same sensation of falling as before, but in reverse; she was being pulled up, images whirring by faster and faster until they blurred into each other and she opened her eyes to see Merope looking down at her.

"And do you understand now, Lydia Deetz?"

"I… yes… but…"

"Good, she said brusquely, and Lydia found herself standing with no memory of moving. "We have no time; the story nears a final end, incomplete. You'll see," she said, warding off Lydia's attempt to speak with a raised hand and shushing motion. "Oh, child, stories are defined by endings. No, I'm not going to stop answering questions before you ask them. Stories are incomplete without proper endings, everything tied up neatly and no ends left to flail and scratch at watching minds. They _must_ have proper endings or they'll start to act like real life, instead of mirroring it… no, there's no time to explain, don't bother to ask." A wave of her hand and a door shimmered open between two columns. Merope pointed.

"Go! You'll know what to do."

Lydia went.

Her first impression once through the door was of a break breaking wave; the immense pressure of hundreds of voices and rhythmic, pumping machinery belching steam. Her head cleared and she realized she was standing in a demented nightmare of a courtroom, more like colosseum than any court of law she knew, and so crowded she couldn't see the defendant. The judge's bench towered across from her, the judge himself half-hidden in a cloud of steam. She caught fleeting impressions of some twisted marriage of organic matter and machine, a rusted metal creature grown over with lichen and mushrooms.

Something made of bone-sharp cold and screaming hunger was testifying with a voice like chips of ice and starvation moons about how he had been cheated of… something… everything kept fading in and out of her perception like a bad dream. This wasn't a place meant for mortals.

The witness finished testifying and the judge spoke in a voice made all of rusted gears and burnt books:

"The testimony is now concluded. Unless there be any to testify in favor of the" – a word she couldn't understand, but felt a little like ghost and a little like chaos and a little like the serpent in the garden – "Betelgeuse, then our judgment is – "

"Stop!" she cried out, voice lost in the steam and swell of the crowd, but someone heard her; enough so that silence spread out cancerous and baleful through the blur of watching creatures. And they were creatures, she saw dimly; the dead were among them but mostly they were just _things_, awful things of nightmare and dark flickering shadows outside the circle of firelight.

"Come forward," the judge intoned, his beckoning finger flaking rust and mold spores.

She stumbled through the crowd, finally able to see the floor and the defendant chained there – iron chains bolted to the floor that looked too heavy to be borne – and it _was_ him. He looked up in shock at her approach, and in his eyes was something like horror, and something like pain.

"Who are you to speak for this" – and there was that word again, the one that tasted like incense and cheap wine – "Betelgeuse?"

"I – I'm Lydia Deetz. The girl he tried to marry – who – well – I – "

"Do you know the charges brought against him?"

"…no."

"Babes, don't – " the judge gestured and a slender chain snaked out of the ground and around Betelgeuse's face, gagging him. "Bailiff," the judge wheezed. "Read the charges."

A twisted toadlike creature in ermine robes stepped forward and clicked its heels smartly.

"Repeated, willful and knowledgeable disobedience of the laws laid down before time and memory," it read in a voice that burbled like a swamp. "Repeated, willful, and knowledgeable exposure of that which is hidden to the mortal world. Repeated, willful, and knowledgeable attempts to coerce marriage with the end goal of gaining unlimited power within the mortal world, in direct violation of our most sacred law, therefore endangering the safety of the whole of the hidden world."

"And you say you can defend this?" the judge hissed, clanking.

"I…"

"As I thought. Now, to the sentencing – "

"Wait!" and she felt the weight of the judge's stare on her like knives. "I mean – we've still got a contract!" Lydia felt her heart soar, remembering, and knowing she could right everything. "I'm still obligated to him. I have to marry him," she said, glancing over at Betelgeuse and frowning at how frantic he looked as his shook his head and tried to speak past the chain stuffed in his mouth. "And then he can go free, right?"

The judge paused for the space of three pounding machine beats. "…that is right and accurate under the law," it said finally, reluctantly. "Very well."

The judge gestured and one of the chains dropped from Betelgeuse's hands.

"Take his hand and I will perform the ceremony."

"It's alright," she said, taking his hand and puzzled at the despair in his eyes. "I'm setting things right."

The ceremony was over quickly; she turned to the judge, eyes bright, and said: "He can go now, right? I married him, that means he can leave."

A gesture that dropped the chains from Betelgeuse's hand and face was the only response. He – _her husband_, her mind reminded her dizzily, reeling under the weight of the strangeness of this place – grabbed her and pulled her close, holding her tightly and it took a few moments for her to understand what he was muttering over and over, face pressed into her hair.

"Please don't, please, not again, I can't – "

She wanted to ask him what the matter was and then the judge's voice boomed out –

"Let the law be served and satisfied!"

– and she felt cold metal wrap around her wrists and screamed. Over her own fear and the renewed roaring of the crowd, as she was dragged away from Betelgeuse, she heard the judge explain:

"Though he walks free, someone must be punished for his crimes; you are husband and wife now, one body, one entity and so I sentence you – exorcism! Die once, child, and then a second time. Thus is order restored and broken law made whole."

The chains were unbearably heavy and she sank to the bloodstained wooden floor in a daze, tears blurring her eyes; the metal pinched her wrists and tugged at her arms and she could see Betelgeuse struggling against a horde of metal guards; someone grabbed her hair and forced her head back and she felt a sharp pain begin to bite into her skin while the crowd screamed for blood and glory and the machines pounded in her head –

"**_ENOUGH!"_** a voice roared, and everything fell silent. The chains dropped away; the sharp knife was withdrawn and she put a hand to her throat, almost fainting when it came away red and warm with a trickle of blood. Cold arms wrapped around her and she almost screamed until she smelled tobacco and whiskey and relaxed against him.

"Enough," the voice said again, more calmly, and Juno walked onstage. "Just what the hell do you think you're doing?" she snarled, voice thin with steel and rage. "They are _married_, you damnfool, and therefore _not_ your jurisdiction."

The judge hesitated. "Juno – " it wheezed.

"Oh shut it, you overgrown tin can," she snapped, lighting up a cigarette. "I just saved you from doing something incredibly stupid, do you realize? Here," and she tossed a folder at the bailiff. "Read it. Our old friend's been pulling their strings."

The toad-bailiff vanished and the judge was holding the file in its hand without any sense of a transaction having taken place.

"…_she_ was behind this?"

"Yes. Idiot. Who else? I've been telling you for years that no one just goes bad as he did without outside help!"

"But now you offer proof."

"She screwed up. Overestimated herself, underestimated me; took control of the Maitland woman, one of the girl's guardians, trying to force things into her precious ending. Now, will you release those two over to me already?"

"I have no choice. They are released, with the apologies of this court."

And everything began to fade until there was only cool, peaceful darkness and a small circle of light encompassing the three; Lydia, face turned to hide herself against her husband, Betelgeuse crouched protectively over her, and Juno looking at them both with pity.

"Oh, you poor damn fools. You don't know…"

"I married him…" Lydia said vaguely. "He's free now…?"

"No," Juno said, something like gentleness in her voice. "As of now, he's human."

The world turned white and vanished.


	7. Chapter Seven

**A/N: IT IS DONE. And what a long, strange trip it's been. Behold, the denouement; all is explained, and tied up neatly, and I have officially Run Out Of Things To Say. Seriously. What started as a standard BeejLyds romance has evolved or devolved or _something_ into some kinda weird fuckin' narrative treatise on the human condition and the dangers of losing yourself in stories and I think if you squint and tilt your head _just so _you can see my recent psychological history written between the lines. **

**Anyway, I thank you all for bearing with me, I apologize for how the story's managed to completely lose its shit these last couple chapters, and I hope you've enjoyed the ride. Please keep your hands and arms inside the vehicle until the tram has come to a full and complete stop.**

**P.S. I am now accepting fic requests for the _Beetlejuice_ fandom, because I kind of meant it when I said I've run out of things to say. I am drained. Tapped dry. I honestly don't think I could come up with something as insane and personal as this. Dammit, the last time I wrote for this fandom (and if any of you look up and find that squelching piece of Sue-smeared literary diarrhea I will _hunt you down like a dog_) it also ended up being intensely personal and cathartic. Apparently Betelgeuse is my therapist.**

**Explains alot, really.**

**Anyway. If you have a fic you would love to see written but don't had the time or energy to do yourself, PM me and we'll talk shop. Though as a warning: I don't do slash. I have nothing against it, I just can't write it for crap. **

**Over and out (and sleep-deprived, can you tell when I hide it so _very, very_ well?)**

* * *

**  
**

The white cleared gradually, like the afterimage of a camera flash, and as Lydia's sight returned she realized they were standing in the living room of the house in Winter River. Delia was there, sculptor's tools dangling limply from her hands, and Charles was staring slack jawed over the top of his newspaper.

"Get the Maitlands," Juno snapped. "Quickly. This is going to take some time, and I don't have much to spare."

She was about to ask Juno just what the hell was going on – and why her mind was filled with strange, blurring images of rotted courts and death and copper fear – when Betelgeuse began to choke and fell to his knees; unthinking, she followed him and started away in when he pitched forward on his hands, vomiting up huge gouts of muddy water.

"Beej?" she ask tentatively, putting her hands on his shoulders.

"It's so _loud_, Lydia..." he whispered hoarsely, and that was when she realized his skin was warm and pink, and his hair was soft and blonde, and the mold was gone…

"Oh my god."

"Heart, lungs… I never realized how _loud_ it all was…"

He leaned into her and she wrapped her arms around him numbly, feeling his chest rise and fall with breath, blood pulsing and flowing where it had lain dusty and dead for centuries. For his part he seemed content to rest his head against her chest and rest his hands on her back, legs sprawled, and remember how to breathe.

"Juno, what's going on – who is _he?_"

Lydia looked up and saw that Delia had gotten the Maitlands. Barbara was standing on the stairs, wide-eyed, and Adam was cleaning his glasses nervously.

"Garvan Dunlavy," Juno said simply.

"No, he isn't," Lydia contradicted instinctively. "I saw – I remember – I mean, he was, but – "

"Not anymore." Juno sat down on a nearby chair, more out of habit than anything else. "His contract with Merope is fulfilled. Betelgeuse is dead, assuming he ever really was alive to begin with."

"What's going on here?" Adam said sternly, mustering as best he could in the face of the continuing weirdness of his afterlife. "Juno, if that man's gone and gotten Lydia in trouble again – "

Juno held up a weary hand. "I'll explain. From the beginning, and with all the pieces Merope left out."

Ignoring Lydia and Barbara's mutual shock, she began.

"The entity known as Betelgeuse was an imprint. He was never truly _real_, in the sense that he died and came to the afterlife or someone mortal dreamed him into being and gave him life. Not in this world, anyway, but if we get into other worlds it goes all metaphysical and there's nothing for it but the asylum. He was imprinted over the mind of Garvan Dunlavy, a young man who loved his wife so dearly that when she died in her first childbirth, and the child was stillborn, he was driven to suicide. Lea, his wife, had known what awaited her in the afterlife. He had no true faith to speak of and furthermore died in a state of such emotional upheaval that even if he had believed in a heaven or a hell or an eternal poker game he couldn't have moved on; his emotions tied him too tightly to this world, and the life he felt cheated of. So he became a part of the administration, like all suicides do, and was good enough at his job that I made him my assistant. Which is where Merope comes in."

Juno paused and took a long drag on her cigarette, as if bracing herself against bad memories.

"Merope is… hard to explain. She began as – well, you'd best think of her as a kind of muse. A being that both embodies and serves stories. Only she got twisted around somewhere, ages ago in the dawn of human dreaming, and began to start forcing stories to serve her. To go where _she_ felt they should go; she began to use them to mold humanity, instead of letting humanity mold them. Tried to, anyway. We cast her down and bound her as best we could but her influence leaks out: there are always humans so desperate to escape the real world that they'll take her poisoned fruit. Garvan was that desperate – and when you're in our afterlife you may well be dead, but you're still only human. So he made a deal with her. Lydia, you saw what it was – he offered anything in return for her promise that eventually his wife would be restored to him and she, seeing the possibility for a good tool and eventually a fine tale – " Juno spat the phrase as if it had gone bitter in her mouth " – she took his identity. Pressed it deep and bound it tight and molded Betelgeuse over the top of it. She couldn't use anything that wasn't already there, of course, so Betelgeuse can be best thought of as Garvan with the brakes removed."

Lydia had been staring at Juno and now she managed to tear her eyes away and look at her parents and the Maitlands. Charles and Delia looked confused, as always, but Adam had that peculiar grave expression he wore when he'd finally understand a knotty, ultimately solvable problem and Barbara was holding tight to his arm, a look of dawning pity and comprehension in her eyes.

"You know most of the rest of the story," Juno continued. "When he saw you, Lydia, the part of him that was still Garvan woke up, for lack of a better term, and that's what that whole marriage nonsense was about. The more time he spent around you, the more he began to revert to his original self; but a calm, casual transition from one state to the other wasn't _dramatic_ enough. It wouldn't make a good enough story. So Merope… arranged things. I tried to warn you, child, in that dream, but she scrambled the memory on waking and you were too deep in her web to reach by that point. She's the one who drew you two off-course that night, so you'd be discovered. And she wormed her way inside your mind," and here she pointed to Barbara, who had the good grace to look sheepish, "and whispered the story you wanted to hear. If you think about what she _actually_ showed you, it hardly qualifies as a horrible betrayal. Not your fault, by the way. She's tempted stronger, and they've generally fallen. And the same goes for you, Lydia."

"But… I almost died, didn't I? I can't really remember past her showing me Be – Garvan's past, but I think I almost died. Wouldn't that ruin things?"

"Of course not. No one said it had to be _happy_ ending, just a properly dramatic narrative. And your marrying him also freed her of their contract."

"You _what?_" Delia shrieked, horrified. Charles began to fumble for his medication.

"I'm fine, really…"

"Merope had almost complete control of her, by the end," Juno said serenely. "Put her in the middle of a trial that only took place because Betelgeuse – who was Garvan more than anything else by then – was so distracted by hie grief over losing her that the law managed to catch up with him. She married him to set him free and they almost killed and exorcised her. Since husband and wife are viewed as one being, she could be punished in his stead, for his crimes."

Lydia hunched over as the wave of shock and outrage broke over her. "But that's impossible!" and "How could this happen?" and all the variants thereof blurred and merged and flew over her and never touched her heart; she was floating in stillness, though some small corner of her mind was quite sure it was just shock. Betelgeuse – _Garvan his name is Garvan Betelgeuse was never real he's Garvan_ – Garven stirred against her and his hands tightened on her for a moment before he pulled gently away and looked up.

"Juno?" His voice was rough but pleasant, and tenor; nothing at all like the whiskey-cracked, smoke-stained baritone she remembered and her heart clenched. He looked so different – _was_ so different. Warm and alive instead of cold and dead; he moved differently, slowly, without the quick manic motions she'd learned to predict and slide through.

"How much do you remember?" Juno asked, frighteningly gentle, and he frowned.

"All of it," he said shortly. "Every century, but… far away. Like a dream I know was real." He paused then, and turned to her. "Lea… Lydia. Lydia."

He said her name like a question and a prayer and she reached up to rest her hand on the side of his face, looking for something familiar in his eyes. He covered her hand with his own (rough and calloused and too warm, _too warm_ and twitching with the little motions of life) and let her look, solemn and afraid, and it was as if the warmth she had always seen lurking there had come forward, and the sharp cunning receeded. She could still see it there, flashing in the background, but diluted and restrained.

"You're not him," she said flatly. "You're someone else. I don't even _know_ you."

He closed his eyes and flinched and she didn't dare soften because she had _loved_ Betelgeuse, dammit, dark and foolish as it might have been she had _loved_ him and he was _dead_ and here was this stranger claiming that _he_ was the only reason there'd ever been anything to begin with –

"I know," he said quietly. "But you are, literally, my reason for living. It isn't much," he said, lowering her hand and pressing it against his heart and she could feel the slow, steady beat under her fingertips, "but it's all I have, and it's yours whether you want it or not. If it would make you happy I'll leave right now, and you'll never have to see me again – " she almost told him to leave, to get out, because the man she loved was never this open, this soft and kind with his danger neatly hidden " – but you know, I don't think it would."

Her eyes widened at his sudden arrogance and she almost slapped him. He grinned, and it was the old familiar grin, the wolf's grin, and she began to laugh, hysterical laughter that turned to gasping tears as she pressed her face against his collarbone. Juno had turned away, giving her what privacy she could, and glared at the others until they averted their eyes.

* * *

A week later, she stood on the porch drinking coffee and watched Garvan load the last of the furniture in the U-Haul, singing in Gaelic and wildly out of tune. She rolled her eyes and drained her mug to the dregs, setting it aside on the porch railing.

"Knock it off or you'll wake up every dog in town!" she called out, and he grinned and blew her a kiss. She smiled at him and went inside to clear up, taking the remains of breakfast with her.

There'd been almost no trouble getting him a social security number and all the other things people needed these days; Juno had 'arranged' things in some unspecified way, and declined to explain how she justified it. Her parents were still wandering around in a mild state of shock and had needed things explained to them several times before it really sank in, but by and large it was understood and accepted that whatever Betelgeuse had been, he wasn't any longer, and there was only Garvan now.

She stopped scrubbing and let the dishes slide into the warm, soapy water. He was dead. She kept remembering and it kept making her heart clench and break itself in two, and she wondered dimly if it would ever stop hurting. She _was_ fond of Garvan, and he loved her so much that she couldn't help loving him a little back, but he wasn't Betelgeuse. He never would be. Betelgeuse had been an illusion, something conjured by a mad ex-muse and Garvan's bitter grief.

Her parents had been very understanding. Their marriage wasn't official in the mortal world, but it went deeper in some ways; they would be bound together, heart and soul, until they passed beyond to a place where those distinctions didn't matter. So Charles had given them the keys to the old place in the city and they'd scrounged furniture from the house (Delia had brought _everything_ with them when they moved, and would have brought the whole of the Upper West Side if she'd been able), not much, but enough to live with, for a while. She had a work-study that paid reasonably well, and Garvan was already looking for a job.

They'd get by. They _would_. She would.

Her fists clenched and she bit hard on the inside of her cheek, tasting blood. _I never wanted this!_ She would give anything, _anything_ to hear his mad laughter behind her, have him grab her and whirl her away, tell her it had all been a mad lark, one of his sick jokes, or some kind of crazy dream and he wasn't dead and she wasn't living with a stranger who loved her more than his life, who she couldn't help loving a little back and hating herself to betraying the memory of what had, in the end, not even been a dream of a ghost.

"Lydia?" Garvan called from the doorway. "It's time to go."

"I'm coming," she called back, voice unnaturally steady, and turned. He was already walking to the car, still singing, and for a moment – when the rising sun had almost obscured him, left nothing but a silhouette of motion – he looked so like _him_ that she had to seize the door frame or fall under a wave of grief and love and guilt. It wasn't fair. _It wasn't fair_. She'd give _anything_ –

_Anything?_ a voice like honey whispered in her mind. She froze, and it seemed for a minute that she could hear the buzzing of bees, low on the wind and rising. Garvan stopped and turned suddenly, fear in his eyes, and she knew he heard it too.

_I love you_, she saw him say over the rising buzzing tide, and it would be so easy…

She closed her eyes. Juno's voice echoed in her memory.

"…_Only she got twisted around somewhere, ages ago in the dawn of human dreaming, and began to start forcing stories to serve her. To go where she felt they should go; she began to use them to mold humanity, instead of letting humanity mold them…"_

"…_began to use them to mold humanity instead of letting humanity mold them…"_

"…_mold humanity…"_

And she remembered Betelgeuse sitting on her bed, telling her that she had to start making her own decisions eventually. And she remembered fainting in his arms, after Ammit, after Egypt, being carried home and his lips pressed against her forehead, the strange light in his eyes. And she remembered the horrible discomfort of the flower girl dress Delia had made her wear, glaring hate while her father and _the replacement _strolled down the aisle. And she remembered her father sitting empty in his chair, staring at a picture of her mother. And she remembered her mother lying shriveled in the hospital bed and the long, shrill electronic scream that had underwritten her nightmares ever since…

Her eyes opened.

"No," she whispered, and said nothing else. The buzzing faded away and she slumped against the doorframe, tilting her head back to keep in her tears.

"Lydia?" Garvan asked, standing in front of her – he must have run up while she wasn't looking. "What just happened?"

"I… I don't know. A story dying, maybe. I don't think it matters." And it didn't. She felt it with painful clarity, shot through her mind like crystal. It didn't matter. She hadn't gotten what she'd wanted, in the end, and it wasn't right and it wasn't fair and _nothing was_. The bitter cup could never pass from her, because it was a cup everyone shared; bitter and sweet, though for some one prevailed and others could take one and make it the other and it was all a sprawling, heaving, sinking, grasping, gasping, laughing, loving, crying, killing, dying, living, breathing, fucking mass of human confusion and human joy.

He still looked worried and she smiled up at him, feeling strangely light.

"C'mon."

She took his hand and walked into the morning.


End file.
